


Stories

by blackkat



Series: 64 Damn Prompts [61]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Academy Era, First Meeting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:38:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet for the first time in a hallway of the Academy. Jūshirō is laughing, and Shunsui is flirting, and their eyes meet across the wooden floor.</p><p><em>Oh</em>, Jūshirō thinks, feeling his heart stutter in his chest in a way that has nothing to do with his illness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories

They meet for the first time in a hallway of the Academy. Jūshirō is laughing, and Shunsui is flirting, and their eyes meet across the wooden floor.

 _Oh,_ Jūshirō thinks, feeling his heart stutter in his chest in a way that has nothing to do with his illness. He takes in the other student, his warm smile, untamed hair, and slight beard scruff just starting to show, and something inside of him expands sharply to fill all the places that he never knew were empty. The other boy is handsome in a rough way, and even though Jūshirō's never really thought of anything like this before, there is a churning warmth twisting through his stomach. It makes his knees go weak, his heart speed up, and his breathing stutter just a little.

Of course, that "just a little" is enough for his illness to take advantage. His lungs rebel, and he doubles over as his chest aches and his throat burns. Jūshirō wants to swear but can't—wouldn't in front of company anyway—and fights the familiar feeling of his knees giving way beneath him.

But he doesn't hit the floor, like he expects. Instead, someone's big, broad, calloused hands catch him under the elbows and lever him back up to his feet, steadying him when it becomes obvious that he won't be able to stand on his own.

"Easy, easy," a warm voice says, and the hands shift to his waist, holding him up carefully. There's a murmur from the other students, but not much of one—Jūshirō's illness is common knowledge, and easily written off.

The one supporting him doesn't write it off, though. He helps Jūshirō into the nearest classroom and settles him in a chair, carefully, as though he's made of glass. Somehow, though, it's not quite as demeaning as it usually is. He takes a shaky breath, making sure his lungs won't react badly to speech, and looks up at the boy who caught him.

"Thank you," he says, and smiles. It's the shaggy-haired boy he saw before, grey eyes warm and concerned, just the faintest edge of flirtation to his grin.

"Don't mention it," the boy says, reaching out to push one lock of long, jet-black hair out of Jūshirō's face. "That's a nasty cough, though. Have you seen a doctor?"

Jūshirō wants to tell him that, in a family of six, where all of his wage as a tutor in the Academy goes to care for his younger siblings, there's no extra for anything but the most pressing medical needs. His illness isn't pressing at all, especially in comparison to the fever going around at the moment that almost took his youngest sister.

But saying that kind of thing, especially to someone who is obviously from a noble house that is far from impoverished, doesn't seem polite. Rather, Jūshirō just smiles and shakes his head.

"Just a cough," he says, brushing it off, and stands carefully. The world trembles a little, as though it's about to spin, but stays in place, and Jūshirō reaches for his books.

The boy intercepts him easily, scooping up the texts and shooting Jūshirō a charming, slightly roguish grin. "Ah, ah. At least let me walk you to your next class."

It's easy for Jūshirō to see that he won't win, so he doesn't even try to argue. From some reason, it always makes people happy to help him, even when he doesn't need it. "All right," he agrees. "I was just going to the library. I'm Ukitake Jūshirō."

With a tilt of his head, the boy gestures Jūshirō out the door in front of him, and Jūshirō thinks idly that it's a gesture that would look just perfect from under the wide brim of a hat. "I'm Kyoraku Shunsui, Jūshirō. Nice to meet you."

His smile is absolutely charming, and makes Jūshirō's knees feel a little weak, so he doesn't correct the use of his first name. Besides, he doesn't want to be rude. "I think the pleasure is all mine, Kyoraku-san," he offers.

"Mah." Kyoraku chuckles and loops his free arm around Jūshirō's shoulders. "Call me Shunsui."

Jūshirō doesn't quite know why, but he does exactly that.

* * *

There's a soft rap on the door, and Jūshirō turns his head weakly to look at it. he can't risk raising his voice without another coughing fit, and there's no way he'll be able to stand long enough to open it, so he consigns himself to rudeness and just closes his eyes. He offers a mental apology to whoever is on the other side, but he's been terrifyingly sick for three days now, and can't even dredge up the energy to feel remorseful.

Therefore, it's a bit of a surprise when the door slides open anyway, and the soft pad of footsteps approaches his futon. Jūshirō cracks an eye open to see Shunsui settle down by his side with a sympathetic smile.

"Just a cough, Jū-chan?" he asks chidingly, and Jūshirō offers him a weak smile in apology. They've been best friends for almost a month now, and good friends in general for three, and Jūshirō still hasn't told him about his illness. It's not willful deception; if anything, Jūshirō completely forgets that he's ill when he's with Shunsui.

"Sorry," he whispers hoarsely, because that's all he can really say—sorry for all the tings he hasn't said, for what he knows this illness and gradual, creeping death can do to a friendship, and he won't blame Shunsui at all if he decides they're better off apart after this.

Shunsui just smiles, though, and reaches out to stroke Jūshirō's hot forehead. Jūshirō's hair snags on his calloused fingertips, starkly white against _everything_ , and he winces a little.

"Sorry," he says again, a wry chuckle fighting its way out of his chest. That leaves him fighting down another cough, but he manages to get out, "I don't think I can tease Yamamoto-sensei about turning grey anymore. I look like an old man."

The smile Shunsui's wearing flickers slightly and then softens, and his hand strokes over Jūshirō's hair in a gentle, soothing pass. He repeats it, comforting and calming, and when he looks at Jūshirō the whole world is in his eyes. "Sexiest old man I've ever seen," he teases gently, tugging on one lock and then leaning down. Jūshirō's breath catches—for a good reason this time, instead of sickness—and for one moment of wild hope he thinks Shunsui is going to kiss him.

But Shunsui simply rests their foreheads together, as though he's checking for fever, and keeps smiling. This close, Jūshirō can see the tightness around his eyes, the faint trace of worry almost covered up by his genial mask. A breath rushes out of him, and Jūshirō smells green tea and sweet bean buns and that indefinable scent that is his friend.

"You scared me," he says softly, and it's not quite reproachful, but enough so that Jūshirō feels repentant. "When you were gone and Yama-jii said you had collapsed, I was worried."

Jūshirō has many friends, many people who know and like him and would spare a thought for him. But this is different. This is _Shunsui_ , and he matters more than all of the rest put together. Jūshirō smiles up at him and manages to reach up and take his hand, twining their fingers together. The gesture, more than any words he can offer, says everything.

"Sorry," he says for the third and last time.

Shunsui just shakes his head and smiles. This time, though, it's genuine, and goes all the way up to his eyes.

* * *

This is where their stories will start.

For the life of him, Jūshirō can see no end.


End file.
